Product of the Times
by Mahna
Summary: You got it wrong, Harry didn't have a fairy-tale ending. He died alone, after spilling his life hastily onto paper. There was more to him, than anyone ever thought..One-Shot.


**A/N**: So the world's finally lost it, neh? Hope you all enjoy it, and I'd just like to say..Unless this is overly popular, I will not be extending it from a one-shot. Most likely, anyway...

**Summary**: You got it wrong, Harry didn't have a fairy-tale ending. He died alone, after spilling his life hastily onto paper. There was more to him, than anyone ever thought..

* * *

Its not a happy time. It hasn't been, not for a while...and..I'm the cause. I turned the wizarding world..Hell! In the end, the whole world, against me... Its almost funny how the guilt is only now getting to me, or is it even guilt. Hence this odd sort of letter, perhaps a will of some sorts...

I bet this doesn't make sense though, it shouldn't...So let me explain. Try to find some kind of hope and blame in these words. Let me tell you the story, my story, so you can judge without biased, at least.

My name is Harry James Potter, and I was doomed before birth to be a 'savior'. A wizard to be part of some epic struggle between a 'Light' and a 'Dark';by a prophecy. A prophecy by a phony seer who only seems to predict my death, or something equally gruesome and just oh-so-bloody-lovely. No, I'm not bitter though. If Fate wants to meddle in its own affairs well, who would any of us be to judge or stop that?

No, the wonderful thing is, this lovely prophecy lead to bloody Voldemort coming to attempt collect my hide. Self-fulfilling prophecy indeed. I wonder, though..When whenever this is found, will people still cringe at a name? A name, for Merlin's sake...Off topic perhaps, that. Though, the upstart Dark Lord failed to kill me, leaving me with a lovely scar and in the care of Muggles so afraid of magic, I swear it was part of some mental disorder. Really. He could've at least killed me correctly.

Then of course, 10 years later I get a letter from this 'magical' world, to go to some magical school of 'Hogwarts', expecting me to pack up and just nod my head and accept all the pulls of the strings like a good puppet. I hated it, of course, though at the time I was grateful for the escape from the diseased people called my Aunt and Uncle. People. Ha.

I hid any contempt at the rude pushing and shoving into the world, as well as turning a eye on the oh so obvious lies. You don't live like I had without learning a few things. A few useful things. Like thinking for yourself; how far reaching. So the mask was created; the oh-so-stereotyped Gryffindor boy clueless and curious about the new world and its workings. Fools.

I allowed myself to be herded under said mask, playing along with Dumbledor's oh-so-obvious machinations. First year the troll and the not so subtle push to befriend the weasel and the mudblood. Excuse me, Ron Weasly and Hermione Granger. Second year, the jealousy and the accusing whispers blended well with a bit of parseltongue, and a play date with a nearly corporal memory of a much younger Dark Lord and his pet Basilisk. I think, through the running and other such fun, it had been named Salazar. How unoriginal. The students with their whispers, though...They were closer than most would really believe.

Under the so useful mask, I taught myself spells and politics. I underwent rituals, perhaps not unlike what Mr. Riddle had gone through, to increase my power..among other things. They never even suspected anything. I should've been an actor. Would've been bloody well good enough at it by the end of it all. Though, I did pick up the pace with it all a bit after my second year, with my studies. I would never be that close to death, that vulnerable ever again.

So through the fiasco with Sirius Black, my Godfather would've thought, Petter Petigrew, and the Dementors in my Third Year...The Triwizard tournament and the crazy Dark Lord's resurrection in my Fourth..A note on that soon..Black getting killed in the Ministry in my Fifth, and then Dumbledore following him in my Sixth..Through all of it, I kept up the mask. Voldemort, though...He saw through it. Perhaps a bit to well, and he used what he saw.

The bond that had formed between us with the 'Avada Kedavra' had grown with the insane man's resurrection. He was able to, and so often would, send me whispers of thoughts, dreams, images. All telling me I could have power at his side, if I would just give up these foolish ideas of 'Light' and 'Dark'. At first, I resisted, knowing a trap when I saw one. Dark Lords, after all, are not known for sharing power and helping others achieve it. After time, though...

It was so hard to resist; I stopped doing so after the old coot of a Headmaster had been killed. I think it was before then, now that I think about it. Back to when I found out about the Horcruxes. I knew it was useless to fight then. The man (Monster, ha) could not be killed, and I was so tired of fighting..oh so tired of pretending...

So, in the summer in what should've, could've, been my last year in school, I was seduced by Darkness. I let it into my life, dropped my mask, and embraced the Dark Lord and his false promises, and joined him as his second. It was great, while it lasted. Now, though, I'm not so foolish. I see, and live, through his lies.

I see how I'm just another puppet to him. Part of me doesn't care. Really. That is the same part of me, though, that was thoroughly seduced by him. The part that makes me believe I, in some small part and in some great mess-up of the world and everything in it, fell for him. Not in love, not that deep. I am not that mental, thank you. Enough, though, that I know I could never kill him. Even if he didn't have those bloody Horcruxes.

That is why I'm writing this. The guilt, you see, never truly touched me until this one time. I had hated the world that expected a martyr from me. Now though, I pity them. I pity everything I'm leaving behind because I am to weak, because they're doomed, because despite their best efforts the world still got a martyr.

Just one with a delayed sense of correct timing...and perhaps a bit to much selfishness.

You see, I'm going to die. I am going to kill myself with the spell that should've worked so many years ago. I'm disillusioned to the Dark, now, and the Light would never take me back. Only ones I could be around, in any way really, would be the bloody dead. So I'm going to go say 'Hello' to them. Even though they will still hate me, for my betrayal.

I just had to write this first. I failed at its purpose though. Will whoever is reading this be able to forgive me for my reasons? Will they, you, have to look at His ugly face and wonder what could've been?

I am sorry, though. I failed even at this, my last act. Do not forgive me, though.

This all was a product of the times, as was I. I understand that. I really don't even want your forgiveness, I realize now this is the rambling of a dying man looking back and seeing how they've wasted their life. How they've killed so many by being to weak.

No. This was not a happy time. It hasn't been, not from the start.


End file.
